


A Quiet Conspiracy

by Rasalahuge



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hunters are not that subtle, Motels, Surely by now some motel owners have noticed?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5239880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasalahuge/pseuds/Rasalahuge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is, across America, a quiet conspiracy.</p>
<p>Everywhere a hunter goes they find somewhere warm, somewhere welcoming, somewhere safe to lay their heads. This is not by accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Conspiracy

It’s a quiet conspiracy.

Not all of them are in on it, there are far too many of them by far, but there are _enough_. Enough that they can spot the patterns, enough to compare notes, enough to join the dots. Sometimes there’s just the one, dark and quiet and wary in a way that could be easily mistaken. Sometimes there’s two or three once, up north on Route 83 Miller claimed to have a troupe of fifteen.

There are those that pretend it doesn’t exist, that their nightmares are just that. They pretend they don’t see the salt, the iron, and the weapons. They turn their eyes from the unusual happenings and lie to themselves in some strange attempt at reassurance. They are to be pitied, the others explain, more so than those that genuinely don’t notice because one day when the nightmares come for them they won’t be able to deny it any longer but it will be far, far too late.

There are the ones who notice but who are too afraid to speak up. They are the ones who quail at the nightmares but who will gladly help those that don’t. They turn a blind eye at the obviously fake names, kick the vending machine until it drops out free drinks and candy, they are the ones who mix up the rooms so that there is extra linen or more comfortable beds. They help in a thousand tiny silent ways. The others say that these ones are to be protected, that not everyone is cut out to be a hero but there is always a need for that quiet support. When the nightmares come for them then others will protect them and afterwards they will clean the others up and put them to bed.

Finally there are the ones who embrace it. There are those that see the nightmares and yet refuse to be cowed. The ones who notice the salt, and buy it in bulk, the ones who hear about unusual happenings and pick up the phone even as they load their gun and arrange for the best room to be open, just in case. They, the others explain sadly, are the ones to be mourned. They are the ones who go out into the dark to face the nightmares before the nightmares come for them. Heroes in their own right, they go to fight off the monsters and they are often the ones that don’t come back. Their homes burned or handed on to those that don’t understand, and their names left as nothing but a footnote in the lives of the ones they tried to help.

It’s a quiet conspiracy.

The ones that drift through, from one room to another, don’t notice. They don’t see when the man or woman behind the desk takes one look at their expression and the name on their card and gives them the room kept especially for nights like this. They don’t notice the way their security deposit is always returned in cash – even if they paid with card and even if the room is trashed and covered in blood. They don’t notice the way the regular cleaner skirts their room, leaving it to the owner though never knowing why.

It’s a quiet conspiracy.

It is also quiet, endless thanks. For the sake of those lost, for the sake of those saved and for the sake of those who will never see it end. It is warm rooms, clean sheets, free wifi and as much hot water as the tanks can be coaxed into giving. It is tips to the nearest diner that will do discounts at the drop of a name.

They are only motel owners but they will do what they can. They will make that room a home for as long as the hunters need it.

Then, at night, they will pray to their patron, to Ellen, who was one of them and died for them all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this is. Except that the number of fics I read where the boys leave their motel rooms in a mess, covered in salt & full of stolen police files or - even more obvious - banishing sigils & devil's traps. No way has someone not noticed this! (Yes I know the Roadhouse wasn't a motel, I don't care it still counts)
> 
> Alternately - if they have shops with hunters signs why do they not have motels with hunters signs?


End file.
